


mint and ginger

by elizabethgee



Series: mint and ginger [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abduction, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Monsters, Mystery, Non consensual drug usage, Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Violence, creepy dude creepin on jaskier, implied attempted rape, saucy dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: Jaskier gets flirty when he drinks, and of course someone wants to take advantage...Geralt doesn't approve.Geralt and Jaskier stop for a break in a small town nestled up against a mountain. But it's not the break they're looking for...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: mint and ginger [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871392
Comments: 54
Kudos: 717





	1. unsolicited forearm comments

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing of the game/ books/ etc, I just think they're cute and wanted to write a little bit. :)

Jaskier was tispy.

Granted, it had been a long, rough week, and they finally had a place to settle down and sleep for a day or two, so the desire to drink was understandable. But Geralt didn’t like it when Jaskier drank because while Jaskier is a friendly man in general, he becomes much more tactile when he has alcohol in his system. That was fine when Geralt was the person he became more tactile with, but watching him let strangers into his space and touch him made Geralt’s guts crawl in a way he really didn’t want to examine all that closely.

Geralt sat in a shadowy corner of the run down tavern (conveniently called “The Run of the Mill”), and watched Jaskier smile and sing about Geralt’s latest monster kill, winning over the tavern patrons with his easy smile and his singing voice. At least he can be satisfied in knowing that while men and women eyed Jaskier up, it was Geralt’s story that fell from Jaskier’s lips.

There was one man in particular that Geralt was keeping a close eye on. There was a dark look in his eyes when he watched Jaskier sing, and Geralt knows enough about monsters to recognize one when he sees them.

A sudden shift in the air brings Geralt’s attention back to his table and he turns to find an elderly woman sitting across from him. She looks tired and worn, but the way her eyes dart around the tavern is familiar and suggests she has a job for him.

“Please,” she whispers, “hear me out.”

Geralt nods, letting Jaskier’s singing fade to the background as the old woman tells him about the town’s children going missing. She clearly doesn’t want to be noticed talking to him—nervous eyes darting around and flinching at every scrape of a chair.

According to the woman (who never offers her name), the town doesn’t see a connection between the missing children, but Geralt knows this woman is right: three children gone in winter, over the last three years. Children die all the time, but not in such a consistent pattern. All boys, all under 10, all on the new moon. And all—

“Last seen at the base of the mountain,” she mumbles, gesturing out the window to the darkness.

The town was very small and nestled in a valley right at the base of a towering mountain range. Geralt glances out the warped glass window into the dark.

“I have little money, but the mothers and I have banded together. Here,” she pushes a bag towards him and gives him a quick, pleading look.

“Please. We’re desperate.”

Geralt looks into the pouch, and while it is not much, he nods and agrees to find the monster. She gives him a grateful, hesitant nod before disappearing into the crowd.

He puzzles over the pieces for a moment, wondering what this creature could be. It sounds similar but not exactly like a werewolf. A hybrid, perhaps? It’s possible, but they’ll have to do some research tomorrow.

Chugging the last of his drink, he slides the pouch of coins into his satchel. It looks like this won’t be the break from work that they were hoping for. He stands and suddenly realizes that it’s…too quiet.

Jaskier isn’t singing. He’s over at the bar, talking with the shifty looking man Geralt had noticed earlier. Geralt’s hackles rise immediately and he digs his nails into his palms, trying to quell his immediate desire to grab Jaskier by the back of his shirt and tug him away. He grimaces at his own instincts and turns his gaze to observe Jaskier.

Jaskier looks…off. He’s blinking too much, and there’s a bit of confusion hovering in his gaze. Geralt’s chair scrapes along the wood floor as he stands up and starts carving his way through the room.

Patrons jump out of his way and he ignores the usual dark, scared looks being cast at him, heart pounding at the idea that something’s wrong with his bard.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, watching Jaskier’s feverish eyes look around, missing him entirely before swiveling back to land around his jaw.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, smile wobbly and confused.

Geralt reaches over him and grabs his mug, peering into it's empty depths and smelling nothing beyond the swill they call "beer."

“Hey,” Jaskier protests, though he makes no move to try to reclaim the mug.

“Who gave this to you,” Geralt asks, carefully modulating his voice.

“That gentleman. Said he liked my singing,” Jaskier says, gesturing to the creep.

“Said his name is John, and he wanted to buy me a drink. Isn’t that kind?”

Jaskier’s words sound like they’re coming from very far away as Geralt hones in on his prey. As soon as their eyes make contact, the man, _John,_ stood and turned away. Geralt turned back to Jaskier and gripped his bicep hard.

“Don’t. Move,” he growls, waiting for Jaskier’s wobbly nod, eyes sharpening at the seriousness of Geralt’s tone.

Geralt just manages to grab the back of the man’s sweat soaked shirt before he reaches the door. He heaves the man outside and slams him up against the side of the tavern, ignoring the suspicious staring of late night passersby.

“What did you give him?”

“How dare you imply—“

Geralt slams his knuckles into the man’s gut and takes immense pleasure in his gasping breathes. Geralt presses a hand against his neck, pinning him to the cold wall.

“I will only ask once more, and after that I start doing real damage. What did you give him,” Geralt growls, as low as he can, letting his rage seep and fill his eyes. The man’s bravado evaporates and the sour smell of fear fills the air.

“Hey, relax. It was just something to calm him down, is all. Look, he was flirting with me—“

Geralt gripped the man’s neck hard.

“What was it,” Geralt demands, feeling the rage starting to arc out of his control.

“Look, it’s just a mild sedative, okay? It’ll be out of his system by the morning. It’s not a big deal—”

Geralt’s lips tug up in disgust at the corners. A sedative? His mind rebels at the implication, and he hates that he can’t kill this monster without being run out of town.

“Hey, he accepted the drink, alright? He’d be fine—“ the idiot continues.

Geralt snarls and lands a hard punch to the man’s face, knocking him to the ground. Geralt looms over the prone man, now terrified and cowering.

“If I see you again, it will be the last time we meet,” Geralt grits out, lips pulled back to show teeth.

The man struggles to his feet and limps off, not looking back as he disappears down the dark street. Geralt takes a moment to pull his rage back and relaxes his shoulders before walking back into the tavern. He learned a long time ago that humans get uncomfortable when they see his rage, and uncomfortable humans are dangerous humans.

The bar stool where he left Jaskier is taken by someone else.

 _Why can’t the bard ever listen?_ Geralt grinds his teeth and scans the crowded tavern, relief flooding him when his eyes land of Jaskier’s familiar, ridiculous shirt.

He’s sitting at a table, chatting with a group of very drunk women. No longer caring about being covert, Geralt marches across the bar, glaring at anyone in his way.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls and the bard swivels around to look up at him.

“Geralt! Where’d you go,” Jaskier slurs.

“Come on. We’re leaving,” Geralt commands, watching the drunk women carefully avoid his gaze.

“Ooh,” Jaskier nearly trips over the bench seat to stand, making Geralt’s rage flare white hot. Jaskier is never clumsy.

“Where are we going,” he asks, and tilts, balance shot.

Geralt snaps a hand out and grips his bicep to hold him upright.

Geralt wants to just pick him up over his shoulder and walk them to their room, but Jaskier would be mortified by that in the morning, so instead he leans close and waits for Jaskier’s drugged gaze to latch onto his.

“Follow me,” he says, squeezing Jaskier’s bicep for emphasis.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Jaskier mumbles, stumbling over his feet as Geralt leads him to the door. Anger boils in him at the knowledge of what that creep was planning, and he has to modulate his grip on Jaskier so as not to bruise him. His jaw will ache from tension tomorrow.

The townspeople cast suspicious glances at the witcher practically carrying a bard through the streets, but Geralt ignores them and focuses on getting Jaskier to the safety of their room.

When they get to the narrow stairs leading to their room, Jaskier is barely awake, mumbling incoherently. Seeing no one around, Geralt bends and grips Jaskier behind his thighs, lifting him over his shoulder.

Jaskier lets out a drugged “whoa,” but otherwise hangs limp in a horrifying manner until Geralt can drop him onto his mattress.

“Did you know,” Jaskier slurs with a drunken smile, “you have very nice forearms—“

Geralt’s brain stops functioning for a moment and he lets out a confused “hmm.”

Jakier flops back on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling as though he didn’t just say anything out of the ordinary. Geralt manages to convince the bard to drink some water, though he has to hold the mug for him and tip it carefully, watching Jaskier’s throat swallow slowly. When he’s managed a full mug of water, Geralt takes it away and starts untying Jaskier’s boots.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, and the terrible confusion in his voice makes Geralt kneel next to him by the bed.

“Yes, it’s me,” he says. Jaskier can’t seem to focus on him, blue eyes blinking rapidly.

“I feel weird,” he slurs, and his usual warm scent is soured by drug and fear.

“You’re safe, Jaskier,” Geralt assures, hands curling into fists against his thighs lest they reach out and touch the drugged bard, “I’ll watch over you.”

“Don’t leave—“ Jaskier says, and Geralt gives in, tearing off one of his gloves and gripping Jaskier’s fingers in his.

“I won’t leave you,” he says, embarrassed but also completely overwhelmed with his anger at seeing Jaskier so confused. Jaskier nods, though Geralt doesn’t think he actually hears him.

Geralt doesn’t sleep that night. After he gets Jaskier’s boots off, he relocates to the chair in the corner of the room and watches Jaskier sleep the abnormal, still sleep of someone drugged into complacency.

\---

Jaskier wakes late the next morning, eyelids fluttering and he groans in pain, reaching a hand up to press at his temples.

Geralt startles from his seat in the corner, brain suddenly spinning. What is he supposed to tell Jaskier?

“What happened,” Jaskier asks, “Gods, my head feels like it’s been split in half.”

“You were drugged,” Geralt says, opting for truth, no matter how uncomfortable it is.

“What—“

“There was a patron at the bar last night. He slipped a sedative into your drink.”

Blood drains from Jaskier’s face and the horror in his eyes makes Geralt grimace.

“I noticed something was wrong and brought you here to sleep it off,” he assures, watching Jaskier swallow and shift to the side of the bed.

“Well that’s completely mortifying,” Jaskier says, eyes studying the worn wooden flooring and pink flush starting to crawl up his neck.

"Is the man still alive," Jaskier asks, trying for humor. But he doesn't look up to meet Geralt's gaze. 

"For now," Geralt says, not taking the bait.

Geralt hands him another mug of water.

“Drink,” he commands, “you’ll probably have a headache for a couple days. You also might be a bit clumsy and have short term memory issues.”

“Been drugged before, have you,” Jaskier mumbles, voice far too quiet as he takes the water and sips carefully.

Geralt grips his satchel and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Geralt squeezes the wooden knob, hating the hesitation in Jaskier’s question.

“I need to take care of something,” Geralt says, watching Jaskier hide his face in shaky hands.

“Stay here,” he says, and Jaskier turns worried eyes to him.

“We only have the room for the night—“

“Stay here,” he repeats, and Jaskier must see something in his gaze because he just nods and lays back down, bare feet hanging off the side of the bed and brushing the wooden flooring.

Geralt secures the room for another night, firmly ignoring the knowing look the tavern keeper gives him, and walks back to the town marketplace to purchase mint and ginger. He looks around the small town, asks pointed questions of the few people who will talk to him, and gathers enough information to have a better idea about the monster he's been paid to find. They will have to work quickly to catch this creature.

\--- 

Geralt is relieved to find that Jaskier is bathing when he returns, giving him time to heat water and makes the ginger-mint infusion quickly, handing it to him when he walks out of the bathing room.

“Drink,” he insists, firmly ignoring Jaskier’s incredulous gaze.

“Thank you,” he says, and Geralt hears what he’s not saying. Their fingers brush as Jaskier takes the mug and Geralt pulls away quickly. When he passes by Jaskier, he takes a careful breath, and while Jaskier still has the acrid scent of the drug on him, the fear has mostly dissolved.

“I have a job for us,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s eyes swivel to meet his gaze.

"Did I say anything weird to you last night?"

Jaskier's question makes Geralt blink rapidly, and his mind darts back to Jaskier's comment about his arms, but he shakes his head.

"No. Nothing weird."

"You'd tell me if I did, right?"

"Jaskier," Geralt warns, and Jaskier waves a hand in the air.

"Okay, okay," he says, fiddling with the warm mug in his hands, "tell me about this job you've got."

Geralt feels the side of his mouth twitch up.

"You won't believe this one," Geralt start, watching curiosity flare in Jaskier's eyes.


	2. brown bread and warm baths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery continues and Geralt gets a bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of pining and no smut. But it's coming, I promise.

“Geralt, there’s a new moon in 3 days,” Jaskier yells, then grimaces and presses his fingers to his temples. Geralt squeezes his hands into fists, hands aching with the desire to press Jaskier back against the bed and insist that he sleep.

“Yes, and presumably another child will go missing,” Geralt says, watching Jaskier massage his head.

“Okay, so, what’s the plan?”

Geralt clenches his teeth together and takes a deep breath.

“The plan is I go figure out what creature this is, and you stay here and rest,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s eyes pop open in indignation.

“You’re in pain,” Geralt tries to head him off, “you should recover while you can.”

Jaskier squints at him.

“You’re bad at talking to people,” he responds.

Geralt blinks at him, lost by the tangent, and Jaskier throws his arms up in frustration.

“I’m good at talking to people,” Jaskier start, “people like to tell me things—“

_I know_ , Geralt snarls in his head, grabbing his satchel and heading for the door, _they also like to get you into bed—_

“I can get information out of people much easier than you can. And hey, maybe we won’t be run out of town by terrified townspeople?”

Geralt pauses by the door. Jaskier _is_ one of those people that humans tend to confide in. He just has to smile and make small talk and suddenly he’s learning about their entire lives and their neighbor’s affairs.

Jaskier knows he has won this argument—jumping up (with less enthusiasm than he normally exudes) and hurrying to the door, sliding past Geralt and down the hallway with a charming smile.

\---

By the evening they’re both snappish and angry. It’s freezing cold by the mountains (and while it doesn’t effect Geralt too much, watching Jaskier shiver is infuriating), and the information they’ve gathered is just making everything more confusing. To top it all off Jaskier still clearly has the sedative in his system: he’s stumbled multiple times, stuttered frequently when trying to charm information out of the townspeople, and the constant squinting alludes to a persistent headache.

Geralt is relieved to be sitting down for dinner in the warm air of their tavern, but his anxiety spikes as Jaskier just orders a potato soup and shoves the contents around the bowl.

“You’ve barely eaten all day,” Geralt nags and immediately wants to dump his mug of ale over his own head.

“I’m just not so hungry today,” Jaskier dismisses, quickly pulling out his notebook.

“So, the information we’ve gathered so far doesn’t match any of the monsters you know of?”

Geralt wants to snarl at Jaskier for trying to change the subject, but recognizing the look in Jaskier’s eyes, he knows he’ll be rebuffed if he presses the issue.

Instead he takes a large bite of bread to give him time to think. It’s good bread— brown and soft with a hearty, nutty flavor. He’ll take some to their room later and place it strategically near Jaskier’s bed.

“It’s not that,” Geralt admits, “it’s that the signs fit multiple different monsters, but no one monster.”

“Could it be a new monster,” Jaskier asks, staring at the sparse list of information he’d gathered. There are dark shadows under his eyes that aren’t normally there. Maybe it’s a side effect of the sedative.

“Possible,” Geralt agrees, though the clues are all so clearly related to different existing monsters that it seems unusual.

“Could it be a hybrid? Or,” Jaskier’s brow furrows, “could it be one monster pretending to be another? Like it’s trying to throw people off the scent?”

Geralt opens his mouth to disagree, but…

That would make sense— a monster copying other monsters as a confusion tactic.

“That’s a possibility,” he admits.

Jaskier slides his notebook to sit between them so they can both look over his list.

It’s sparse.

_-Occurs once a year for the past three years_

_-Occurs only during the winter months, on the new moon_

_-Victims are boys (about 10 years of age)_

_-Location: base of mountain range outside of town_

_-There’s nearby lake (Lake Monoka) where odd sounds have been heard (“howling/ inhuman crying”)_

_-The town’s crime rate increases in the winter_

_-Several unusual sheep slaughter this year (bite wounds are too large to be wolves, and the carcasses are left to rot)_

“Which monsters do you see here,” Jaskier asks, leaning close to him over the table. Geralt gets a waft of his warm human scent and shakes his head to clear the desire to lean across the table and _take—_

Looking down the list, he gathers that there are approximately 4 monsters represented there, though each is slightly wrong. He points to the second line.

“Werewolf, but it’s off because it should be the full moon, not the new moon.”

He slides his finger down the list.

“The yearly occurrences could suggest a witch, though there would be many more signs if there was a witch in the area. The presence of the lake leans more towards a water sprite, though if it were a water sprite, more people would be missing. Crime rates always climb in the winter months, and the sheep thing—”

Geralt huffs and taps his knuckles against the tabletop in frustration.

“The sheep slaughter could be an angry wood sprite, but they prefer rainforest climates.”

“Is there a monster that is a mimic?”

“Hmm,” Geralt mumbles. He hasn’t heard of such a thing, but that doesn’t mean such a creature doesn’t exist.

Jaskier lets out a frustrated laugh and snakes a tired hand through his curls, brown hair twisting around his fingers and shining in the warm tavern light. Geralt blinks and retrains his thoughts on the job at hand.

“Well, I supposed we have a day to figure it out,” Jaskier grimaces, glancing around the rowdy room.

“Perhaps I could sing a bit? That could help with paying for—“

“You should sleep,” Geralt interrupts, then frowns.

“I don’t mean…” he tries, and Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, I think you’re right. I need sleep. Are you coming,” Jaskier asks, standing. He still hasn’t eaten anything.

“I’ll be up soon,” Geralt says, and Jaskier squints at him but nods, collecting his notebook (Jaskier quickly slides a roll of bread into his bag while he’s not looking) and disappearing towards the staircase to the second level rooms. Geralt watches him go (carefully keeping his eyes at shoulder level) and catalogues the patrons who let their eyes wander.

Eyes follow Jaskier in every town, but in this town in particular Geralt is suspicious of everyone. He can’t stop thinking about Jaskier’s drugged compliance the previous evening, and what the man— John— had planned for him. Geralt’s traitorous mind conjures up all kinds of horrible images and before he can stop himself he’s growling and the wooden mug beneath his hand groans with the strength of his grasp.

A young woman nearby quickly moves away from him and he huffs, finishing the drink in two gulps and pocketing the rest of the bread for later.

Heading out into the cool night, he prepares himself for a long, tiring evening.

\---

He returns to the tavern in the early morning hours feeling even less sure than he was when he left. None of it makes sense, and he’s getting…frustrated. And now he’s covered in muck from the cold lake. It’s slimy and green, slipping along his skin with a distinct murky feel that he knows will be difficult to get off.

The more he looks at the details of this job, the more it doesn’t sound like a monster at all.

He pauses outside the door to their room, pressing his palm against the rough surface. He’ll sleep a couple hours, then get back to it.

The old woman’s eyes, pleading and full of old grief, flash through his mind and he grimaces. Unlocking the door and slidng into their room, his eyes immediately track Jaskier. He’s fallen sleep on top of his bedding wearing his sleep clothes: a loose white shirt and soft looking navy pants. Geralt’s heart calms at the sight of him, safe and resting, and he turns around to close the door as quietly as possible.

“Ger’lt?”

_Fuck._ He woke Jaskier.

“Hmm,” he confirms, trying to stay calm in the hopes that Jaskier will drop off to sleep again. No such luck— Jaskier sits up and rubs at his face, sliding to sit on the side of the bed.

“Where were you? Are you okay?”

He blinks up at Geralt with glittering, trusting eyes.

“And why are you covered in mud,” he asks, awareness settling in his gaze. His voice has that sleepy, husky quality that makes Geralt feel soupy and weird, so he grits his teeth and walks to the attached bathing room.

“I was looking in the lake,” he admits, knowing that Jaskier won’t let up now that he’s aware and noticed Geralt’s state.

“And,” Jaskier asks, following him and leaning against the bathing room doorframe.

“Nothing,” Geralt mumbles.

He tugs his mud soaked shirt off and Jaskier turns on the hot tap, filling the tub.

“Jaskier—“

“Let me,” Jaskier says, quiet.

Geralt takes a deep breath, prays for patience, and pulls the rest of his clothes off. He tugs the tie out of his hair, muck covered strands falling onto his neck and across his jaw. The lake had smelled of algae and rot, and he’ll be glad to get the slime and stench off of his skin.

The hot water is heavenly, and he hisses as it warms his legs. Jaskier is fussing with the soap jars provided by the tavern, all lined up in shining bottles next to the tub. Geralt lets himself watch Jaskier fuss, observing the line of his back through the light sleep shirt, and letting himself imagine running his hands through Jaskier’s sleep ruffled hair.

Jaskier picks up a bottle and makes a sound of approval, unstoppering it and dumping a viscous liquid into his hands. Geralt quirks a brow at him, but Jaskier just kneels behind him.

“Let me,” he says again, voice soothing and warm and so, so close. Geralt should stop him. He should tell Jaskier to get some more sleep. But…

Jaskier’s nimble fingers start combing through his hair and it’s _heavenly_. His eyes roll back as Jaskier massages along his scalp, detangling, filling the room with Jaskier’s heady, clean scent and the warm, woodsy smell of the tavern-provided soap.

He’s exceedingly grateful that the water is cloudy with soap and he’s too tired for his body to respond to Jaskier’s attentions, because the feeling of the bard’s fingers through his hair is strangely intimate and vulnerable, and it’s making Geralt think dangerous things—

The frustration of the day recedes and he nearly falls asleep. By the time Geralt is clean and the water is draining, they’re both barely conscious. Not caring that sleeping with wet hair means facing a tangled disaster in the morning, Geralt collapses into his bed with only sleep pants.

His last conscious thought is that Jaskier looks pretty and soft when he’s exhausted.


	3. strangled dandelions and headaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has a frustrating dream and Jaskier makes a disturbing connection.

Geralt’s dreaming. He has always been aware of dreaming, though according to Jaskier that’s a very inhuman trait. He doesn’t tell Jaskier, but it sounds terrifying to be human— to not know if you’re awake or asleep at any given moment.

In his dream, he is lying in a field next to Jaskier. It’s full of golden dandelions and vibrant spring grass. The sun is warm but not hot, and Jaskier is smiling at him.

They’re surrounded by color and light, lying facing each other, and Geralt feels no hesitation in reaching out and brushing his hand against Jaskier’s smooth cheekbone. His chestnut hair ruffles in the breeze and Geralt gives into the fantasy—

He heaves himself up and grips one of Jaskier’s thighs, pulling and making room for his hips to settle between Jaskier’s spread legs.

Jaskier smiles up at him beatifically, laughing and reaching a hand up, running his soft fingers along Jaskier’s scratchy jawline.

Geralt hums in pleasure, pressing his face against Jaskier’s palm and taking in his adoring gaze for a moment before leaning down to kiss the bard like he’s always wanted.

Safe in this dream state, Geralt grips the nape of Jaskier’s neck to keep him close and presses his tongue along Jaskier’s plush lips, licking and sucking.

Jaskier moans and presses his hips up against Geralt’s, and they’re both hard and suddenly desperate. Geralt rolls his hips against Jaskier’s, pinning him down to the grass, keeping him safe.

Geralt moves to bite at Jaskier’s pale neck as he ruts against him. Jaskier squirms and moans, fingers digging into Geralt’s back, hips jolting with Geralt’s rhythm. He mumbles something and Geralt pulls back, dazed by the sight of his lust blown eyes.

“You’re going to get me killed,” Jaskier says, lips red and puffy with Geralt’s kisses.

Geralt freezes, feeling ice fill his limbs.

“What,” he asks, knowing it’s ridiculous, and _this is a dream, it’s not real_ —

Jaskier sits up and Geralt leans back, kneeling between Jaskier’s legs. Jaskier plucks a dandelion from the soft earth and pinches it between his fingers, strangling the stem.

“You’re going to get me killed,” he says again, holding the flower between them and reaching up with his other hand to crush the blossom, gold petals bruising and tearing—

Geralt reaches out to grip his hand, to tell him it’s not true, but the world tilts and Jaskier is suddenly across the field and Geralt is left holding the broken flower.

“Jaskier,” his yell comes out as a whisper and the sky greys as clouds hide the sun.

Jaskier starts running away and Geralt takes off after him.

“Jaskier!”

But Jaskier’s bright blue shirt keeps getting farther away, no matter how hard he sprints, and that’s impossible because Geralt knows he’s faster than the bard—

“You’re going to kill me,” Jaskier calls, singing voice mocking and echoing through the valley. His eggshell blue shirt blinks in and out of Geralt’s view as the grass grows taller and taller, tangling around his ankles.

“Jaskier, stop!”

“You’re going to kill me.”

Geralt’s feet tangle in the grass and he falls to his knees, grass and dandelions tangling in his fingers. He glances down and balks at the sudden red seeping up from the ground. The dandelions wilt and rot, and Geralt’s boots slips in the rising blood as he stumbles to his feet.

“Jaskier!”

But Jaskier’s gone now and Geralt spins, seeing nothing but red and withering gold and— _You’re going to kill me!_ —

“Jaskier!”

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice yells into his ear.

Geralt gasps, bolting upright.

He’s in their room, in their shitty tavern, in this stupid town with its mystery monster. Jaskier is standing next to the bed, crystal eyes wide and worried.

“You were dreaming,” Jaskier hurries to reassure him, voice soft.

“What,” Geralt breathes, stupid, glancing around the room, completely off kilter—

“You were dreaming—“

_You’re going to kill me._

Geralt lets out a strangled moan and reaches over, gripping Jaskier around the waist and tugging, rolling them to pin the bard beneath him, looming over him and breathing hard.

“Stop,” Geralt commands, chest heaving and sweat dripping down his back.

Jaskier freezes, barely breathing, palms open where they’re pinned to the bed.

Geralt struggles to calm his mind. He needs the world to stop moving for a second so he can take stock of the situation. He focuses on what’s tangible.

Jaskier’s chest expands and contracts beneath his, worn cotton rubbing against Geralt’s sweat damp skin. Geralt knows he has to be crushing Jaskier with his weight, but he can’t seem to move.

Geralt’s head hurts, badly. There’s a weird aching behind his temples, and he’s never had a dream like that. It felt as real as what he’s seeing right now: Jaskier frozen to the bed beneath him, concern painted thick across his face like a startled deer. It’s a terrible mockery of what his dream started out as and he feels thick, viscous shame well in his chest.

It was a dream. Jaskier is safe.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier breathes, still as stone.

Geralt sits up, unlocking his hands from around Jaskier’s wrists and shifting to sit on the side of the bed. The wood floor is cold in the night air, and it helps ground him.

“That seemed like a hell of a dream,” Jaskier sits up and slides to sit next to him on the mattress, thighs almost touching. Geralt is made starkly away of their size difference, seeing the meat of his thighs next to Jaskier’s slender human thighs, and he feels a sharp spike of fear at the thought of hurting the bard.

_You’re going to kill me._

Geralt shakes his head, pain shooting through his head.

“Are you alright,” Geralt asks, glancing at Jaskier’s wrists in the low light and hoping desperately that he didn’t grab him hard enough to bruise.

“I’m fine, Geralt. Though I’ve never seen you dream like that before,” he adds, fingers twisting in the sleeves of his loose shirt and betraying his concern.

“That was…different,” Geralt admits, fingers going up to press against his temples. He freezes, heart ramping up from where it had started to calm and he remembers watching Jaskier do the same thing earlier in the evening.

He stands and hurries to light the room’s lanterns.

“What’s wrong,” Jaskier asks, watching him slide through the shadows and slowly illuminate the room with warm yellow light.

Geralt stands at the edge of his bed scrutinizes Jaskier, firmly ignoring the jolt of arousal at seeing Jaskier sit in his tangled bedding.

“Did your headache go away?”

Jaskier flinches.

“Noticed that, did you? I thought I hid it well…It’s mostly gone. Still hanging out in my temples. Why?”

“I have a headache,” Geralt says. Jaskier laughs like this is all a joke.

“Yeah, well, this is a headache inducing job—“

“I don’t get headaches,” Geralt cuts him off, “I only know it’s a headache because I just did the same thing you’ve been doing all day.”

And he reaches up and massages at his temples. Pain ricochets across his eyes and he frowns.

“Come sit,” Jaskier says, gesturing to the bed. Geralt complies, sitting far away from Jaskier lest he loses control of himself and pins the bard to the bed again.

“I think,” Geralt pauses.

“I think someone has been drugging both of us,” he tries, but to his surprise Jaskier nods in agreement.

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t work so well on you, but it knocked me out a couple days ago.”

“Makes sense with our different physiologies,” Geralt ran a hand through his hair, and sure enough, it’s just as tangled as he predicted it would be. Never, ever sleep with wet hair.

“We know that one human, _John—“_

  
“Probably not his real name,” Jaskier interjects.

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees, “we know he drugged you with that beer from The Run of the Mill the first night we were here, so we can safely assume we’re being drugged through food and drink. What did you eat today?”

Jaskier crosses his arms.

“Water, some bread, that’s….kind of all. And I feel like I’m getting better.”

“I was fine after lunch, but I started to feel bad at night, so it must have happened during dinner.”

Geralt knows they’re both thinking about the people in their tavern: the cooks, the waiters, the many patrons who could easily slip something into a dish while it’s waiting to be transferred to a table.

“I don’t remember seeing him downstairs,” Jaskier says, “though I don’t really remember his face.”

“I wasn’t looking for him, but he could have been there. Disguised,” Geralt offers, running through his memories of the evening and not recognizing anyone they came into contact with as John.

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice sounds off and Geralt turns his head so fast his neck cricks painfully. Jaskier is staring into the middle distance, lost in thought. Geralt’s shoulders tense in recognition and he braces himself for whatever Jaskier says next.

“What kind of monster drugs people?”

Geralt sucks in a sharp breath through his clenched teeth. He knows exactly what kind of monster uses drugging as a hunting tactic.

“Humans,” he growls through numb lips, and Jaskier nods, flames from the lanterns dancing in his frozen eyes.

“Could it,” Jaskier starts, haltingly, “could it be a person doing this? Faking monster attacks to take the suspicion away from the town itself?”

Geralt knows Jaskier is right and he nods.

“Okay,” Jaskier mumbles, putting his face in his hands briefly before looking up at Geralt with determined, exhaustion-rimmed eyes.

“We have today and tomorrow to figure this out…we should try and sleep until the sun comes up.”

Geralt agrees, though they both just end up lying wide awake in their respective beds, staring silently at the old wood ceiling. When gold light slips across the floor they both give up and stumble through dressing.

\---

“Okay, time to figure this shit out,” Jaskier goes for enthusiasm, but it falls flat in their small room.

They run through all the townspeople they’ve met beyond John, ruling everyone out fairly quickly.

“I mean,” Jaskier starts, then throws a sharp glance at Geralt, “I could maybe find out more by approaching John.”

Geralt’s blood pressure shoots through the roof.

“Or you could not approach the creep who has been drugging us,” Geralt says, glaring.

Jaskier flips his notebook open and slides it across the table, open to a hasty sketch Jaskier made of the town’s layout.

“Look,” Jaskier tries again, running a finger along the crude mountain line.

“We don’t know where along the base of the mountain this is going to happen,” Jaskier explains, “and we’re not going to use a _child_ as bait.”

“Of course not,” Geralt snaps back, “but we also aren’t going to use _you_ as bait.”

To avoid seeing Jaskier’s response, Geralt stares down at Jaskier’s drawing.

“Do you have a better idea,” Jaskier asks.

 _Yes_ , Geralt wants to scream, _Yes. I lock you away in our room and finish this job myself._

He refuses to answer, crossing his arms and sighing.

“Besides,” Jaskier continues, fumbling with his pen, “what are you going to do if it is a human behind these kidnappings? Kill them?”

Geralt remembers the weight of Jaskier on his shoulder as he carried his barely conscious body up to their rooms and thinks: _Yes._

“No,” Geralt says, watching Jaskier roll his eyes, “I’ll bring them back to town and let the people deal with him.”

A muscle tenses in Jaskier’s jaw and Geralt has to pour himself a glass of water so he doesn’t reach over and press his fingers against the jumping muscle—

“Wait!”

Geralt spins around to find Jaskier’s wide eyes staring at the water.

“Fuck,” Geralt whispers, and smacks the mug down on the cabinet.

“Geralt, I think the guy who’s drugging us probably knows something about what’s going on here, don’t you think? If he’s drugging a witcher and his companion, he’s at the very least worried about our presence here.”

Geralt does not want to admit that Jaskier’s logic makes sense. He also really doesn’t want to admit how Jaskier calling himself Geralt’s ‘companion’ makes his heart jump.

“Fine,” he gives in, “but I’ll talk to John.”

Jaskier quirks a brow at him.

“I’m going with you while you talk to John,” Geralt amends. There is no way Geralt is going to let Jaskier be alone with that creep.

“Good enough,” Jaskier smiles, grabbing his lute and bouncing to the door.

“Come on, let’s stop by the town market, I’m starving and I bet no one has poisoned the fruit stand.”

Despite everything, seeing Jaskier in better spirits lifts Geralt out of his foul mood, and he feels a bit of hope settle into his chest.


	4. golden oriole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier look for John, discover a monster, and finally get to have some fun. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the lovely FolleDeJoie for the monster inspiration (and for guiding me to the Witcher wiki). xx
> 
> *Golden Oriole neutralizes active poisons.

Geralt watches Jaskier wander through the marketplace, surrounded by people, and grinds his teeth against the pain in his head. This is unbearable— how do humans deal with this on a regular basis?

He sidles up to Jaskier and mumbles to him that he’s going to find an apothecary. He’s reticent to leave Jaskier alone, but the pain is like a pebble in a boot and the nearest apothecary is actually quite close to the marketplace so he won’t be out of reach. Jaskier gives him a smile, and the pain in his head fades slightly.

\---

Geralt steps out of the stuffy apothecary not ten minutes later, tilting his face up towards the sun to let the warmth seep into his skin.

The apothecary attendant had been suspicious and haughty towards him, sharp eyes digging into him the entire time he was in the oppressive shop. It’s a normal reaction, he’s used to it, but that doesn’t mean he wants to prolong the experience.

The shop had 3 of the 4 potions he was looking for, and he’s been overcharged (as usual), so he’ll have to look into earning some more coin later.

His irritation got the better of him when the attendant started prying about the potions he ordered.

“Planning on getting poisoned anytime soon,” the attendant sneered, handing over the small bottle of Golden Oriole.* Geralt gave into his anger and, not breaking eye contact with the man, uncorked the bottle and downed the lot. It took great effort to not grimace at the grassy, syrupy taste, but the dawning look of horror on the human’s face was worth it.

The potion is working quickly though, and the sun’s heat helps melt away the last of the pain in his temples.

He feels eyes on him and jolts back to the present, honing in on the feeling and finding Jaskier staring at him, open mouthed, by the dried fruit stand.

Geralt turns and looks down the street, trying to figure out what Jaskier is looking at, but there’s nothing— only people going about their day. He turns to give Jaskier a questioning look, but Jaskier is paying for a bag of dried fruit, smiling as though nothing happened.

 _Hmm._ He files the weird moment away for later.

“Did you get what you needed,” Jaskier asks as Geralt approaches. The fruit stand owner darts a sharp gaze at Geralt and busies herself with helping another customer.

Geralt looks down at Jaskier’s pretty face and tilts his head. He’s squinting in pain still, and Geralt wishes he could give Jaskier a potion to help ease the ache, but his human physiology would probably react oddly and they’d end up in an even worse situation than they are in now.

“Not completely,” Geralt admits, “but we need to find John as soon as possible.”

“Already did it,” Jaskier grins, pulling a dried fig out of his freshly purchased bag of fruit and popping it into his mouth.

“What,” Geralt asks, baffled.

“Well, Andrea— over at the strawberry stand,” he gestures and waves at the pretty woman manning the obscenely red stand, “she told me that a man named John works as a blacksmith down the road near the flour mill.”

He looks very pleased with himself, offering Geralt a dried fig and smiling. Geralt’s mood sours as he watches the pretty girl smile and wave at Jaskier, so he grumbles and starts heading down the street without a word.

“Hey, wait up,” Jaskier calls, hurrying to catch up with Geralt’s larger strides.

\---

The blacksmith shop (“The Broken Arrow” proclaims a shoddy sign hanging from the roof overhang) is broken down and small, and neither of them want to go in. It’s farther down the road than most of the town’s shops— hidden away and dark as though trying to avoid attention.

“Well, that’s an all around terrible name for a blacksmith shop,” Jaskier says, hands on his hips, peering up at the sign.

“Let’s hope our monster’s in today,” Geralt says, wanting this whole fiasco to be over with.

“Hello, hello! Anyone home,” Jaskier calls as they approach the open doorway.

Weapons drip from every surface of the shadowy space— axes, bows, swords, daggers— and on the entry way table are some very odd contraptions that make Geralt avert his gaze in distaste.

The loud ringing of metalwork echoes from a back room and they step inside, weaving their way through the morbid collection of weaponry.

Sure enough, there’s the guy named John (and Geralt can’t believe he’s actually named _John_ ) bent over a sword glowing orange with heat, hammering it into a dangerous shape.

Geralt would recognize the guy anywhere. He’s taller than Jaskier, broad, with a strong jawline and thick auburn curls.

As soon as he sees Geralt his face falls and his grip on the glowing weapon tenses.

His eyes dart to Jaskier and he snarls at Geralt.

“I haven’t approached your plaything, Witcher. Leave me be.”

“Excuse—“ Jaskier balks at the words.

Geralt has no time for this man’s shit, so he darts forward and presses a dagger to John’s throat before the man can so much as lift a finger.

“Drop the weapon,” Geralt demands, and the glowing sword falls to the earth, fizzling and scorching the dirt.

“Why have you been kidnapping children,” Geralt demands, not bothering with formalities.

John’s sick laughter echoes in the close space and Geralt presses the blade against the sweating skin of John’s neck.

“That’s ridiculous. You think the missing children have anything to do with me?”

“You’ve been poisoning us,” Geralt snarls, “Why?”

John’s dark eyes flicker to Jaskier and back to Geralt.

“I haven’t been poisoning you.”

It’s a blatant lie, and Geralt presses the blade harder against the man’s throat.

“I do believe I made you a promise the last time we met,” Geralt reminds him, watching fear push the bravado out of John’s eyes.

“I’m going to give you one more chance to answer honestly—“

“Geralt—“ Jaskier’s anxious voice interjects.

“Why have you been poisoning us,” Geralt demands, ignoring Jaskier’s anxious voice.

“This isn’t about you, witcher,” John spits, eyes sliding to Jaskier again.

A sick heaviness settles in Geralt’s belly, puzzle pieces sliding together, and his fingers twitch on the handle of his dagger.

“Who is your master and what do they want with a bard?”

John smiles with a manic light in his dark eyes and he looks to Jaskier again, eyes hungry and possessed.

“Speak, now, blacksmith,” Geralt grits out, losing his resolve to not harm this human as every second passes by. He feels Jaskier’s soft fingers press against his shoulder.

“Geralt, wait,” Jaskier mumbles.

“Better listen to your pet, Witcher. Though he won’t be yours for much longer,” John teases. Rage floods Geralt and he takes a deep breath to stop himself from maiming this sick man—

_Oh._

Geralt tilts his head. There’s purple at the edge of John’s collar. Geralt shifts his grip and rips the collar of his shirt back. Sure enough, there’s an all too familiar wound at the base of John’s neck. John hisses and flinches away.

_Fuck._

Geralt steps back, giving him space but keeping the blade presses to his neck.

“Who is your master, John?”

John’s caught and he knows it. He’s started sweating in the hot air, eyes darting back and forth between Geralt and the doorway.

“You’re not going anywhere. Tell me who your master is.”

“No! I’ll not betray him,” John growls, suddenly looking terribly small and sick; a terrified rat in a maze. Jaskier steps back, hiding behind Geralt, repelled by the sight.

John’s eyes track the movement and he smiles, lips stretching grotesquely over his teeth.

“He always gets who he wants,” John mumbles, fingers starting to twitch like spider legs along a web.

Geralt blocks Jaskier from the man’s view.

“You’re responsible for the missing children, aren’t you?”

John glares at him when Jaskier is removed from his eyeline, breathing picking up.

“And the slaughtered sheep? The mystery cries coming from the lake? You’re just doing what your master commands. What does he give you in return?”

Sweat slides down John’s face and he lets out a manic, jittery laugh. Geralt feels Jaskier’s hand fist in the back of his shirt as the unhinged sound.

“You won’t stop him, no one can,” John’s eyes roll in his skull, manic light jumping in his eyes, “there is nothing you can do! He will have your pretty little pet—“

Geralt snaps his hand back and punches him, knocking him unconscious.

Jaskier lets out a yelp of surprise and Geralt lowers the unconscious man to the packed dirt floor.

“Why,” Jaskier asks, voice shrill.

“What good is that going to do us? I don’t know if you realize this but humans can’t talk when they’re unconscious,” Jaskier says, stepping away from John’s prone body.

“We need him to not talk, actually. We can’t risk him letting his master know we’re onto him.”

He turns to Jaskier, stepping in front of John to block him from view.

“I’ve figured out what’s going on,” he says, and Jaskier tilts his head.

“You look worried, though,” he says, eyes scanning Geralt’s face.

“Hmm. Let’s tie him up and I’ll fill you in.”

\---

“Vampires?”

Jaskier is gaping at him, shocked.

“Yes. Probably a lesser vampire,” Geralt sits on the low stone wall across the road from the blacksmith.

Jaskier laughs and puts his hands on his hips, waiting. His face drops at the look Geralt gives him

“You’re serious? You’re not joking?”

“No. The wounds on his neck are definitive. It all makes sense now. The vampire is probably a Nosferat. They’re nocturnal— hence the new moon kidnappings. The Nosferat have two forms they can shift between: bat and humanoid. Like all vampires, they don’t need blood to survive, but they enjoy it. It’s like…alcohol for them.”

“Ew,” Jaskier mumbles, nose wrinkling at the thought.

“They don’t normally cause problems like this,” Geralt says, more to himself.

“Yes, well, stolen children is a giant, giant problem,” Jaskier plops down next to Geralt.

“And he’s apparently set his sights on you,” Geralt adds, remembering how John’s eyes constantly darted towards Jaskier.

“What? What makes you think that? Why would I—“ Jaskier flails his arms around, gesturing to himself, “attract a vampire? That’s ridiculous.”

Geralt stares at him— vibrant and beautiful and alive, glowing in the sunlight, and feels frustrated rage well in his throat.

“John must have been drugging you to take you back to him,” Geralt says, watching Jaskier bite his lip hard, worrying the flesh with his teeth, “though that leaves us with the question of whether or not a child will be taken tomorrow night.”

Jaskier crosses his arms, brow furrowed. Geralt stands.

“Come on,” he says, starting to walk back towards the town center.

“Wait, we can’t just leave John tied up in there—“ Jaskier argues, gesturing to the run down blacksmith shop.

“If we let him go, he’ll go directly to his master and inform him that we’ve discovered there’s a rogue vampire stealing the town’s children. He’ll have to be kept quiet for now.”

“Okay,” Jaskier sighs and rubs his eyes, “so how do we get rid of the scary, scary vampire?”

“A silver sword coated in vampire oil,” Geralt says.

“And do you have a silver sword coated in vampire oil?”

Geralt glares at Jaskier and the bard grimaces.

“Okay, what’s the next best option?”

“Burning,” Geralt says, mentally flipping through options, “it probably won’t kill him, but it will take him centuries to regenerate.”

“Good, okay, great. Let’s do that.”

Jaskier rubs at his neck and sudden terror, unexpected and icy, floods Geralt. He grips Jaskier’s wrist and tugs his hand away from his neck.

“Hey—“ Jaskier yelps.

Pulling the high collar away from his skin, Geralt sees only pale white skin, unmarred, pulse thundering along his neck. He checks the other side too, gripping Jaksier’s jaw and tilting his head— nothing. Along the nape of his neck— nothing. He brings Jaskier’s wrists up and slides the sleeves back— nothing.

“Geralt—“ Jaskier’s voice is soft in a way that tugs at something in Geralt’s chest and he grits his teeth.

“You don’t have any weird wounds? Suspicious bruises?”

“No,” Jaskier says, watching him with limpid eyes.

Geralt suddenly realizes he’s standing in the middle of a road, manhandling a human— anyone could walk by and see—

He steps back, regulating his breathing and straightening his shoulders. A quick glance along the road shows they’re alone, save a circling hawk high above their heads.

“Okay. We’ll have to wait until sundown to find the Nosferat. But we can prepare in the meantime.”

\---

The sun sets all too soon, and they set off to search for the vampire’s home among the mountains. Now that he knows what they’re looking for, Geralt has narrowed down a section of the mountain to focus on.

“It’s weirdly quiet here,” Jaskier notes, tugging the coat closer around his waist as they pick their way through thick trees and wild shrubs. The coat he’s wearing belongs to Geralt and the sight of it on Jaskier is doing weird things to Geralt’s insides that are really not helpful when he’s trying to hunt down a vampire. But he’s right, it is too quiet— the animals have fled the area. It’s been nearly two hours of searching when Jaskier suddenly reaches out and grips his arm. He points up the mountain and whispers:

“Do you see it,” he asks, warm breathe fogging in the winter air.

Geralt searches frantically and, yes, there hidden among the jagged rocks is a small castle-like structure.

“Does that look like a place where a creepy vampire would live?”

“Yes,” Geralt agrees.

They hurry back down the mountain, eager to get back to the warm tavern and get some rest before creating a plan of attack for the following evening.

They’re both jumpy with adrenaline though, and eager to eat now that they know they won’t be poisoned.

Geralt is pleased to see Jaskier eat an entire bowl of soup and a roll of bread, and when he pushes a mug of ale towards the bard he happily drinks it.

They drink a bit too much, perhaps, and start to stumble to their room late in the evening. Geralt keeps having to grip Jaskier’s arm to stop him from landing on his face, and by the time they get to their room Geralt is rapidly losing control of himself. Watching Jaskier smile and flush with heat and drink is intoxicating, and he’s _wearing Geralt’s coat_ —

Geralt is so distracted that he trips up the last steps to their door and slams into Jaskier, squishing him against the door.

“Fuck, sorry,” he starts, but Jaskier twists around and kisses him.

His hands come up to frame Geralt’s face, pressing his hot lips against Geralt’s, confident at first but going hesitant as Geralt doesn’t respond. He pulls back, eyes going wide in horror—

“Shit, sorry—“

Geralt growls, shoving the door open and pushing Jaskier into the privacy of their room. He slams the door closed, too loud for this time of night, and grips Jaskier’s neck, pulling him in to kiss him properly, consuming, and it’s so much better than he imagined, than his terrible dream—

Jaskier lets out a soft sound and Geralt feels arousal jolt through him, so quick it hurts, and he slides his hands under his own jacket around Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling it off and tossing it aside.

“Geralt—“ Jaskier sounds gut punched, and Jaskier reaches down to grip behind his knees and lift him, smiling as Jaskier’s arms wrap around his shoulders and Geralt walks him to his bed.

Geralt wonders for a moment if he’s dreaming again, but Jaskier breathes against his neck and his chest hitches against Geralt’s and he knows this is real.

He kneels on the bed, laying Jaskier on his back and climbing onto the mattress, bracing himself with his knees next to Jaskier’s thighs. Jaskier’s looking up at him with stunned, blown pupils, and Geralt smirks, sitting up to pull off his shirt, knowing full well the show he’s giving the bard. A hand reaches up and touches his belly and his hips jolt from the spike of arousal.

He flings his shirt away and presses a hand against Jaskier’s belly to pin him in place and uses his free hand to unbutton the ridiculous bard’s shirt.

Jaskier watches him, breathing hard in the night air, ruby lips parted in surprise. It’s entrancing, and Geralt’s fingers fumble with the buttons. He gets the shirt undone and pauses, waiting for Jaskier to look up at him.

“Okay,” he asks, surprised by how guttural his own voice sounds. Jaskier shivers and nods emphatically.

Permission granted, Geralt slips his hands under the shirt to press against the skin of Jaskier’s belly, sliding along his torso up to his shoulders and smoothing the shirt off his shoulders. Jaskier leans up on his elbows to take it off and lays back, letting Geralt look his fill. He squirms, embarrassed, but Gods he’s pretty. Slender and pale with dark chest hair, Geralt wants to bite along his chest and suck kisses into his skin.

 _Later_ , he promises himself, and leans back to carefully pull Jaskier’s knees apart, creating space between his thighs for Geralt to slip into. The light pink flush high on Jaskier’s cheeks flames red at the prone position, and Geralt smirks, lowering himself so their bare chests press together.

Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath and shivers, bringing his hands up to press against Geralt’s jaw and gentle along his neck, calming. Geralt knows he has to be crushing the bard with his greater weight, but Jaskier doesn’t look upset about it, so Geralt lets himself lay on top of the human, blocking him from the world, and feels overwhelmingly protective.

Geralt presses his lips to Jaskier’s, letting his tongue slip out to press along the seam of Jaskier’s full lips, growling as Jaskier parts them to let Geralt inside. He tastes of ale and he’s so warm and soft and _wet_ , Geralt has to hold himself back from just ripping his clothes off and claiming him—

Jaskier’s hands slide up through his hair, twisting in the locks and tugging gently. Geralt hums and moves to bite gently at his jaw, alternating kisses and nips along his neck, and Jaskier whines, giving in and hooking a leg around Geralt’s hip and thrusting up.

The heat of Jaskier’s erection pressing into his hip fries something in Geralt’s brain and he snarls, instinct taking over, and he shifts and rolls his hips down, hard.

Jaskier moans and Geralt needs them to be out of their pants, now.

He grips Jaskier’s jaw and presses a hard kiss to his lips—

“Don’t move,” he demands, watching Jaskier swallow and nod.

He leans back, mourning the loss of Jaskier’s skin against his, and starts pulling at the ties of his pants. Jaskier’s eyes widen in surprise and he swallows, throat bobbing in the low light.

Geralt pulls his pants down to his knees, relieved to have the restricting pressure of his pants off his dick. He watches Jaskier watch him, taking his erection in his hand, pulling and spreading the fluid that’s dripping from the slit.

Jaskier lets out a huff, squirming, and Geralt lets go of himself, reaching for Jaskier’s pants and pulling the ties too roughly. Jaskier squeezes his knees against Geralt’s hips, embarrassed, but Geralt presses a firm hand to his belly, stilling him.

“Don’t move,” he says again, waiting for Jaskier’s nod to continue pulling at the ties. Once they’re loose enough, he pulls, sliding back to pull the offending item all the way off before slipping back between the bard’s thighs.

He spends a long moment looking at him, having wanted this moment for a very long time, but the bard is actually shy despite all his bravado and stories, and he squirms and goes to cover himself with a hand.

Geralt snags his wrist and growls.

“No,” he demands, watching Jaskier’s breathing pick up.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whines, red flush surfacing along his chest. Geralt lowers himself again, so they’re pressed together head to toe, and the feel of their erections touching and sliding together is amazing torture.

He presses his lips to Jaskier’s, biting and sucking and licking until he’s relaxed again.

“Okay,” he asks again, needing to be sure, and Jaskier nods with a shy smile.

Geralt rumbles in approval and grips one of Jaskier’s knees, pulling him closer and starting a slow rolling rhythm with his hips, pressing their erections together.

“Oh,” Jaskier exclaims, eyes rolling back and hands gripping wildly at Geralt’s biceps, squirming and shaking.

They won’t last long—

Geralt hooks Jaskier’s knee around his hip and slides his freed hand down to grip their erections together, thrilled at the feeling of Jaskier’s hot length in his hand, simultaneously soft and hard, fluid building and sliding down the head. Geralt takes a moment to run his hand along him, pressing his fingers into the slick and rubbing, sliding, watching Jaskier squirm and twitch and whine.

“Geralt,” Jaskier yelps, hips jolting up into his grip. Geralt gives in and leans down, kisses along his neck, squeezing and pulling as they rut together. Jaskier whines and Geralt is going to go insane—

He bites into the meat of Jaskier’s shoulder and Jaskier lets out a shout, spilling between them. Geralt follows him, moaning into Jaskier’s shoulder and pressing into him hard, hot liquid splattering across Jaskier’s belly.

He collapses onto Jaskier, breathing hard.

He immediately shifts to move to the side, worried about crushing Jaskier, but the bard grips his shoulders.

“Don’t,” he says, and something fragile in his voice makes Geralt pause. He lowers himself back down so they’re chest to chest, running soothing hands along Jaskier’s sides, waiting for their breathing to calm.

Geralt gets up when their breathing has returned to normal, grabbing a rag and wetting it, cleaning them off and smirking as Jaskier flinches with oversensitivity. They fall asleep easily, tangled in the sheets and each other.


	5. fire and patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A monster is confronted and the boys figure some things out.

Geralt wakes to warm winter sunlight streaming through the window and hitting the bed. Geralt stretches, satisfied from the night’s activities, and puts an arm out, searching for Jaskier’s heat. His heart gallops and he jolts upright.

Jaskier isn’t in the bed.

He takes a deep breath and manages to restrain his panic by sheer force of will. The window is locked, and there’s no way someone could have snuck in and kidnapped Jaskier without Geralt knowing. He probably went searching for food, or something equally mundane.

Geralt dresses quickly— shoving on his pants and jamming hi feet into his boots, throwing on his loose black shirt, and as soon as he pulls the door open relief washes through him. He can hear Jaskier’s voice; a soft tune floating up to their room from the first floor. He leans back against the hallway, heart slowing to a normal rate, and listens for a while, relishing the sound of Jaskier’s voice early in the morning, low and intimate and warm.

Once he’s calmed down, he walks down into the main room and feels the few morning patrols turn suspicious eyes to him. Jaskier’s singing falters for less than a second before resuming.

He’s beautiful; leaning against a pillar in the center of the room, backlit with morning light, looking perfectly put together and glowing— like he wasn’t mauled by a Witcher several hours ago.

Geralt gets some bland oatmeal and finds the darkest corner and eats his breakfast, relishing the moment and trying not to think of the task ahead of them. When Jaskier finishes the song he saunters over to Geralt’s table.

“Hi,” Jaskier greets and _blushes_. Geralt is transfixed, watching the pink flush appear along Jaskier’s cheeks.

“Are you alright,” Geralt asks.

“Yes, yes of course, I just,” Jaskier’s face does something complicated, gesturing to the nearly empty dining area, “wanted to come down and try and earn some coin before the day started.”

Jaskier bites his lower lip, chewing the red flesh and avoiding Geralt’s gaze. Geralt’s immediately distracted by the sight, remembering the feeling of Jaskier’s lips beneath his last night—

Wait.

Why is Jaskier acting like this? Avoiding his gaze, blushing, leaving their bed before Geralt wakes. Is he avoiding Geralt? Or…

A heavy, dark pit blooms in his belly.

Did Jaskier regret what happened last night? Was it just a result of drink-fueled lust?

He frantically runs through his memories from the previous evening, trying to figure out if there was any indication that Jaskier didn’t want what happened—

Surely he would have told Geralt to back off if he was uncomfortable…?

But he could have been scared. _No_ , he tells himself, _Jaskier has never been scared of him, he wouldn’t have started being scared last night._

Maybe he drank more than Geralt thought. He didn’t seem drunk though— just a bit tispy.

“So—”

Jaskier’s sudden outburst jars Geralt out of his spinning thoughts.

“What’s the plan? How to we go about killing this vampire before he can nab any more children,” Jaskier asks, lowering his voice as he realizes he’s talking about monsters in a tavern.

 _And before he can kidnap you,_ Geralt adds in his head, bracing his elbows on the table and running his hands through his hair.

“Well, it will be a temporary death, but it will take centuries for him to regenerate. It’s the best we can do, unfortunately,” Geralt pauses, wondering if he should ask about last night. Watching Jaskier’s eyes dart around, anxious, Geralt decides to leave it and focus on the more pressing matter of ‘vampire going to kidnap a kid and potentially my bard.’

“We should try and get some more information out of John. He may be more pliable now that he’s been stuck in his shop for half a day,” Geralt suggests, pushing his bowl of oatmeal across the table in the hopes that Jaskier will eat some.

But Jaskier just hops up, ready to go, and Geralt indulges in a frustrated sigh before following his lead.

\--- 

“Fuck,” Geralt mumbles, glaring around the empty room where they left John the previous day.

“How the hell did he get away,” Jaskier asks, watching Geralt prowl around the room, shifting through the hay scattered along the dirt floor, searching for clues that aren’t there.

“Well,” Geralt sighs, running a hand along his jaw, “no doubt he’s gone back to his master to tell him all about us. That’s…not ideal.”

He watches Jaskier fidget by the door, pale fingers digging into the doorfame.

“We should try to stop the vampire now, while the sun is out. Nosferat are susceptible to sunlight so it may be easier to get to him during the day,” Geralt brushes past Jaskier, angry with himself for not getting more information out of John the day before.

\---

After a heated argument, Geralt agrees that it would be best to have Jaskier go with him while he hunts down the vampire. Jaskier knows exactly how to twist his arm; pointing out that if Jaskier is left in the town, alone, then there’s no one to stop a vampire from snatching him up, or for John to find him and bring him to the vampire.

Geralt grinds his teeth at the mention of John, but of course Jaskier is right, which is how he finds himself trying to figure out how to kill a vampire while keeping Jaskier safe.

By the time they make it to the stone castle, it's late in the evening. The sun is still up, but it will only cast light for another hour or so. The Nosferat’s home is very small and dark, though candlelight glows from the sparse windows. Geralt sneaks them around the back, sliding through a heavy wooden back door into what looks like a kitchen area. It’s disturbingly quiet, much like the evening before, and Geralt hears his own blood thundering through his ears.

They move silently through the kitchen, down a narrow hallway, and into the enormous entryway. It’s lavish and somehow sick feeling. Ornate tapestries line the stone walls, and a long, narrow wooden table spans nearly the length of the room. A pile of papers sits on the middle of it and Geralt gestures with his chin. Jaskier walks around the other side of the table, contemplating the giant tapestries while Geralt looks through the papers as quickly as he can. There isn’t really anything interesting— some letters from correspondences, a wanted poster from the town, a recipe for bread.

Geralt is halfway through the pile when the hair on his neck stands up and he looks up to find Jaskier staring over his shoulder with horror filled eyes.

“Fuck.”

Geralt is thrown to the ground by a heavy force and a shadow moves over him, papers flying—

Jaskier yelps—

The vampire is fairly human looking, though there’s something distinctly off about his appearance. Maybe it’s the vacant, hungry eyes, or the snub nose. Maybe it’s the long, lank hair, or the skeletal look to his face. Either way, his appearance screams _monster_ and Geralt wants him dead, now.

The vampire is using Jaskier as a shield, one spindly hand gripping his jaw and the other snaking around his waist to hold him close, fingers digging into the bright green fabric of Jaskier’s shirt. Jaskier is frozen, terrified eyes fixed on Geralt.

“Witcher,” the vampire hisses, voice an inhuman rasp. Jaskier flinches away from the voice and the too long fingers pinch harder into him.

“Kind of you to bring my prey to me, I thank you,” the vampire grins, sharp teeth glowing in the flickering candle light.

Geralt tears his eyes away from Jaskier’s round eyes, calculating.

“What’s your name, vampire,” Geralt asks, trying to buy time to _think_.

The vampire is watching him with a calculating look as well.

“What does it matter to you, Witcher?”

“What did you do with John,” Geralt tries, knowing the answer already.

“Useless man,” the vampire spits, eye’s glowing and furious, “I asked him to do such a simple thing: bring me the pretty bard. He couldn’t manage. I gave him another chance: get the Witcher out of the way. He couldn’t manage that either. So, I let him pay me back in another way.”

“Where is he,” Geralt asks.

“See for yourself,” the vampire grins, manic, and his eyes dart to the end of the table.

Geralt squats and glances under the wood tabletop. John is dead; drained of blood and laying prone under the ornate chair at the head of the table. He stands back up and the vampire’s gaze has tracked to Jaskier’s exposed neck as though listening to something—

“You’ve manipulated a man into stealing human children for you,” Geralt says, trying to draw the vampire’s attention to him. It works and the vampire turns his attention back to Geralt.

“And now you’ve killed him, too.”

“I like my yearly treat of children’s blood. It’s so much more pure than adult human blood. But this…” the vampire turned his feverish eyes on Jaskier, the hand wrapped around his jaw sliding down to pinch the ruffles of his high collar, teasing it aside—

“I cannot resist this,” he hisses. Geralt shifts, trying to figure out how to cast and not hit Jaskier.

“I was looking for my next…treat…in my other form when I spotted him. I told John right away— I must have this one. And while John has failed me,” the vampire sneers in disgust, fingers clenching in the fabric at Jaskier’s belly, “this tasty morsel has walked right into my home. But what’s this?”

Jaskier cringes as the vampire presses his nose into Jaskier’s hair and inhales. Geralt’s blood boils at the sight, and the vampire sneers and hisses at Geralt—

“He smells of you, Witcher.”

Shit.

“So he’s yours, is he,” the vampire purrs, delighted cruelty shimmering in his dark eyes, “well, you’re not opposed to sharing, are you?”

Jaskier’s blue eyes dart to Geralt, terrified and pale, letting out a shocked whimper when the inhuman hand against his belly dips down under the hem of his shirt.

“Let him go, vampire,” Geralt growls as low at he can.

The vampire does exactly what Geralt was hoping for— he throws his head back and laughs.

Geralt casts Aard—the bright shockwave shifts through the heavy air and hits the vampire and Jaskier hard enough that they both fly backwards. Jaskier twists and throws himself away from the monster.

Geralt vaults the table, landing hard over Jaskier’s prone body, pinning him down with one arm and throwing his left hand out to cast Igni—

Flame hits the vampire and he shrieks, fire catching and engulfing the creature. He shivers and screams, curling to the ground as the sparks spread. The smell of blood and burning hair fill the air and Jaskier gags beneath him, turning his face away and closing his eyes. Geralt watches the vampire burn— skin bubbling and melting away, stolen blood sliding across the stone floor.

Relief fills Geralt are the vampire twitches and goes still, still aflame. Great’s lungs burn from strain and Jaskier’s frantic breathing puffs against his neck.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt twists and sits up, scanning Jaskier for injury.

“Are you okay?”

Jaskier flinches, eyes darting to the burning pile of vampire and grimacing.

Geralt huffs a breath and taps his chin, turning him to redirect his gaze away from the incapacitated monster.

“Jaskier,” he demands, watching Jaskier swallow hard and nod, blinking rapidly.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he says, leaning up on his elbows.

Geralt ignores his own shaking hands a he braces against the ground to stand up, deciding to add self defense to the list of things he needs to teach Jaskier as soon as possible—

“Ugh, now I realize why monsters stay down when you hit them with that shockwave thing—“

Geralt feels regret lance up his chest, horrified at having hit Jaskier.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t avoid you.”

“Don’t,” Jaskier stops him, standing on wobbly feet, “you saved my life. Don’t apologize for that.”

Geralt’s chest aches as he watches Jaskier stare at the burning vampire.

\---

As soon as they make it back to their tavern, Jaskier orders a bath for himself, saying he felt gross after being groped by a vampire (Geralt grinds his teeth, wanting to replace that touch with his own). Jaskier closes the wooden door separating the bathing room from the bedroom and Geralt removes his armor, heading out into the night.

He heads to The Run of the Mill, remembering their first night there and the flyer he saw hanging above the bar.

He should have restrained himself. After all this time of _wanting_ , he should have waited until a better moment. It was just…the stress of knowing someone wanted to take Jaskier away, and seeing him drugged like that…He wanted to protect Jaskier, keep him safe in his own bed, where Geralt could hold Jaskier down and make sure all he felt was pleasure.

Of course Jaskier isn’t interested in Geralt like that— who would be? Geralt’s not built for it. Jaskier probably just wanted a bit of stress relief. Geralt tells himself it’s fine, but something hot and heavy lodges itself in his chest and sits there.

Maybe…maybe it was just the novelty of it? Jaskier does flirt freely, maybe he just wanted to check him off a list? Bedded a Witcher, check. Immediately after the thought pops into his head he grimaces. That’s not like Jaskier at all. It’s much more likely that he was just tipsy and lonely and panicked about a _vampire wanting to kidnap him_ , and Geralt was _there_.

All these thoughts clamor in his head and he needs it to stop, so he gestures to the flyer above the barkeep’s head and the barkeep points him to the back of the tavern.

It’s just what he needed— he lets himself get hit several times, wins the three fights he signs up for, and walks out of the tavern an hour later with nearly 250 oren in his pockets.

\---

“Where were you— What the hell?”

Jaskier’s yelp is surprising, but what’s more surprising is the soft fingers that tilt his jaw towards the low candle lighting. He must look terrible: hair disheveled and dirty, sweating, busted lip, and favoring his left side. Jaskier, on the other hand, looks beautiful and clean and smells of pine soap.

“What happened? Did someone attack you?”

Jaskier steps back to scan him, eyes frantically looking for injury.

“I’m fine,” Geralt dismisses, stiffness already crawling up his side. He plops the bag of orens down on the room’s small cabinet with a significant look at Jaskier.

“Won some fights, got us some money.”

“You…fought for money,” Jaskier asked, completely appalled.

“Yes, Jaskier, I do it all the time,” Geralt says.

“You…what do you mean, ‘all the time?’”

“It’s an easy way to earn coin,” Geralt says, squinting at Jaskier as the bard starts pacing across their room.

“We just got paid for the vampire business! And I could sing! Why would you—“

“Leave it alone, Jaskier,” Geralt snaps, any relief from the fight coming back tenfold. Now, on top of being frustrated over his lack of control around Jaskier, the adrenaline crash is settling in and he _hurts_.

“I’m sorry for what happened last night,” Jaskier suddenly yells, eyes going wide in shock at his own outburst.

 _Oh no_ , Geralt thinks, heart sinking.

“I…I wish you hadn’t…” Jaskier stutters, fingers reaching up to tug at his curls and he turns his face away from Geralt, hiding.

Geralt stands, ignoring the spike of pain in his side, horror filling his chest.

“I wish you had told me to fuck off instead of indulging in my stupid feelings,” Jaskier says, voice dropping to a whisper. He crosses his arms, shoulders hiking up towards his ears.

“It’s not fair of you, you know? To jerk me around like that.”

Geralt tilts his head and his heart jolts like he’s missed a step. Is Jaskier saying…?

“What are you saying,” Geralt asks, voice flat.

“Geralt, don’t be cruel,” Jaskier says through clenched teeth.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, stepping around Jaskier to look down at him.

“Tell me,” he demands.

Jaskier’s mouth twists in pain and his gaze won’t reach above Geralt’s chest as he speaks.

“You know I care for you,” Jaskier admits, voice barely audible even to Geralt’s enhanced hearing. Jaskier fidgets, rubbing his fingers together in a familiar nervous tic.

“I wish you hadn’t indulged me.”

“What,” Geralt snarls as understanding hits him. “How could you think that,” he growls.

Jaskier’s startled eyes meet his gaze, shock dropping his mouth open.

“What makes you think I was indulging you,” Geralt asks, lips pulling back in anger.

Rage is hot in his veins and he reaches out, gripping Jaskier’s biceps and pulling him close. Jaskier’s palm smack into his chest.

“What made you think that,” Geralt demands.

“Wait,” Jaskier puts his hands up, pushing against Geralt. Geralt lets go immediately, clenching his hands at his sides.

“I’m confused,” Jaskier admits, “so last night wasn’t a pity thing?”

Geralt sees red. Pity? Jaskier thinks Geralt took him to bed out of pity?

“No,” Geralt snarls, knowing the anger is plain on his face for Jaskier to see.

“Why have you been acting all weird today, then?”

“You’ve been acting weird,” Geralt accuses, then sighs.

“I figured you thought it was a mistake, or you were lonely, or—“ Geralt pauses, knowing this won’t go over well, “or that it was just…out of curiosity.”

“Curiosity?”

Geralt grimaces and now it’s Jaskier’s turn to be angry. Red flushes his face and he jabs a finger into Geralt’s chest.

“How dare you? You think I wanted to fuck you because you’re a Witcher? When have I ever indicated that? How could you think I would do that to you?”

Geralt freezes at the sight of sudden tears in Jaskier’s eyes. _No._

“I wouldn’t. Geralt, I wouldn’t— I…I really care about you— _you_ —not your…witcher-ness. I just,” he stops, throat choking and pressing his hands to his face to hide. Geralt can’t stand it anymore and reaches for him.

He doesn’t know what to say and he doesn’t think he could speak even if he did, so instead he grips Jaskier’s wrists and pulls his hands away from his face. He leans down and presses their lips together, heedless of his split lip, just needing to kiss Jaskier right now, immediately, and do anything to make Jaskier _not cry_ —

He presses their lips together as softly as possible, trying to convey all the things he can’t vocalize, shifting and pressing kisses along Jaskier’s jaw, up his temple, under his eyes, until Jaskier sighs and relaxes in his arms, exhausted.

“Sorry,” Geralt manages, and Jaskier’s chest convulses in a laugh.

“Me too,” Jaskier mumbles, shy eyes darting up to Geralt’s, soft smile tugging at his puffy lips.

“I really, really want to take you to bed,” Geralt says, “just to be clear.”

Jaskier presses his face to Geralt’s neck and Geralt can feel Jaskier’s heart rate skyrocket.

“I really, really want you to take me to bed,” Jaskier whispers, “just to be clear.”

The pain in Geralt’s side suddenly disappears and he feels joy burst in his chest, gripping Jaskier around the waist and kissing him hard, walking him back towards the bed.

Jaskier crawls onto the mattress and Geralt follows him, pulling his shirt off and throwing it aside. He slips his hands under Jaskier’s sleep shirt and pulls it off, leaning down to press his lips to Jaskier’s smooth, clean, unbitten neck, down to his clavicle, pressing a quick kiss to one of Jaskier’s nipples and feeling his hips jolt, storing the information away for later as his fingers tugs at the ties of Jaskier’s sleep pants.

“Get your pants off,” Jaskier demands, trying to reach for Geralt’s hips. Geralt leaps up, both his and Jaskier’s pants off, then climbs back on top of his prey, pressing their lips together. He could spend the night kissing Jaskier all over…

Jaskier presses his palms flat against Geralt’s chest and he sits up quickly. But the bard just reaches over to the nightstand and pulls open the drawer, slipping out a small glass vial.

A strong jolt of arousal shoots through Geralt and he leans back, situating himself between Jaskier’s knees and reaching for the bottle.

He slicks up his fingers and re-corks the vial, running a soothing hand over Jaskier’s thigh as he slips his fingers down to ghost over his entrance.

Jaskier nods, chest heaving, and Geralt leans down to kiss him as he presses his index finger past the muscle. It’s clear that Jaskier has done this before and Geralt has to forcibly squash the jealousy that rears up. Jaskier is here with him now, and that’s what matters.

He stretches Jaskier slowly, savoring the feeling and Jaskier's sigh when Geralt presses a third finger into him. He curls his fingers to press against Jaskier’s prostate, eliciting a sharp jerk and yell of surprise.

He grins and Jaskier starts pulling at any part of Geralt that he can reach.

“Now, now, in me, now,” he babbles. Geralt slicks up his aching arousal with the left over oil, watching Jaskier shift onto his belly.

“This’ll be easier the first time,” Jaskier explains, glancing down at Geralt’s erection.

Geralt feels ridiculous pride well up within him, and while he would prefer to see Jaskier’s face, this is also a pleasant view. He runs his hands down Jaskier’s back, pressing into the muscle, gripping his hips.

He slots himself between Jaskier’s knees and grips himself, pressing the head of his dick against Jaskier’s slicked entrance. 

“Okay,” he asks Jaskier, and Jaskier nods.

“Yes, Geralt, now would you please—“

Geralt presses forward, clenching his teeth at the tight squeeze, pressing, pressing, until his hips press against Jaskier’s thighs. It’s overwhelming. Jaskier is breathing shallowly, sweat shining along his smooth back.

He doesn’t move, wanting to give both of them a moment to catch their breath.

“Jaskier,” he asks, feeling his patience diminishing.

“Give me a second,” Jaskier requests, voice thin.

_Fuck._

“Want me to stop,” Geralt asks, thighs starting to shake.

“No,” Jaskier breathes, “no, just, you’re…big. Give me a second.”

Geralt breathes slowly, fingers clenching at the soft meat of Jaskier’s hips, not daring to look down where they’re connected lest he lose control of himself.

Jaskier shifts and Geralt sucks in a breath.

“Jaskier,” he warns, fingers clenching.

“Okay,” the bard says, “okay, just slow.”

Geralt bites his cheek hard, forcing himself to roll his hips slowly, gradually increasing the pace, making sure Jaskier is okay. Jaskier starts to relax, shifting and pushing back against him, and Geralt reaches a hand down, sliding along Jaskier’s hip to grip his erection. His arousal is hot and perfect, and Geralt growls, slamming into Jaskier as he slips his fingers through the slick dripping from Jaskier’s erection.

Jaskier lets out a yelp and Geralt gives into his instincts, pulling Jaskier back so Geralt is kneeling with Jaskier in his lap. Geralt slides his free hand around Jaskier’s chest to hold him close and roll his hips up into the bard, tugging at his erection and rubbing under the head, along the weeping slit, tracing the thick vein along the side. Jaskier squirms on his lap, gasping and jerking, calling his name, gripping at any part of him within reach.

Geralt’s hips start to jerk and he leans close to whisper into Jaskier’s ear.

“Come for me, bard.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath, arousal pulsing in his grip as he obeys, arching his back and squeezing Geralt where he’s pounding up into him. Geralt’s own orgasm gut punches him and he presses himself deep inside Jaskier, filling him.

Jaskier goes limp and Geralt manages to slide them down onto the mattress together before slowly pulling out. Jaskier twitches in oversensitivity, but Geralt quickly rolls him over and kisses his lips, pulling him close.

“Wow,” Jaskier mumbles, smiling as Geralt sucks kisses into his neck. Geralt hums, standing and wobbling to the washroom to grab a rag.

Jaskier blushes as Geralt wipes them down, but smiles when Geralt slides back into bed and tangles them together.

They fall quickly into sleep, breathing softly under the warm sheets.


	6. sunlight through the window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue for this story. Thanks for reading!  
> (There may be a sequel...)

Geralt wakes early the next morning with a level of calm he hasn’t felt in a very long time. He’s surrounded by the combined smell of his and Jaskier’s scents, the bed is soft, and Jaskier’s skin is warm where he’s pressed up against Geralt’s side.

He only wonders briefly what woke him before he hones in on Jaskier’s pounding heartbeat. _Oh._

Geralt takes a chance and reaches out, wrapping a hand around Jaskier’s waist and pulling him close, settling Jaskier’s back against his chest and sliding a leg between Jaskier’s, pinning him in place.

“Go back to sleep, bard,” he mumbles, pressing his hand against Jaskier’s chest, finger’s scratching softly through the hair as he pets him. Jaskier’s heart rate slowly eases back into sleep beneath his palm, and it’s not long before Geralt follows him.

\---

_Bang, bang, bang!_

Geralt jolts upright, hands automatically reaching for the swords propped next to the bed. Jaskier grumbles, twisting and burrowing his face against Geralt’s neck.

What the hell?

He disentangles himself from Jaskier and stumbles out of the bed, pulling on pants and huffing as the frantic knocking continues at their door.

Whomever it is better have a fantastic reason for getting him out of that bed. He yanks the door open to see a young man with his hand poised to knock again.

Geralt glares, perhaps a bit too harshly, and the boy takes a large step back, eyes dropping down to Geralt’s scarred chest, then back into the room over Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt glances around and sees what their visitor is observing: Jaskier laying belly down on the mattress, face turned away, barely covered by the sheets, looking soft and warm and inviting—

Geralt steps in front of the man, blocking his view on the sleeping bard.

“What,” he asks, wanting to slam the door in this guy’s face.

“You’re a witcher, yes?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“I’ve a message for you, from Gots Velen.”

He holds up an envelope, ragged and torn from the long travel, and Geralt snags it, already closing the door.

“Hey—“ the man tries, but his voice is muffled as Geralt closes the door, sitting on the mattress and tearing the envelope open.

It is indeed a missive from Gots Velen, from one Frederick Morren, who’s been having some trouble with the town well. People are claiming to see a ghost haunting the water supply, and the water is making people ill.

There’s the promise of pay, and lodgings. It’ll be a two-day journey from their current destination. Roach will appreciate that— she’s been stuck in the tavern’s stables for three days—

Soft fingers press into his back, and Jaskier’s lips ghost along his shoulder.

“What was that about,” he asks, voice thick with sleep.

“A contract, to the west. Gots Velen. There might be a ghost haunting a well,” he tries to be coherent, but Jaskier really is very distracting— sitting behind him with his knees on either side of Geralt’s hips, pressing his chest up against Geralt’s back and arms going around his front to slides along his chest. His fingers trace along scars, soft and massaging.

Jaskier buries his nose against Geralt’s neck, inhaling deeply, and something about the gesture makes a sudden spike of arousal shoot through the witcher. He drops the letter to the ground and turns, pressing his lips to Jaskier’s pliant mouth, shifting them both up onto the mattress.

Jaskier is warm and sleep loose, vulnerable in a way that tugs at something deep in Geralt’s guts. He presses his hands into Jaskier’s hips, relishing the soft, unblemished skin, letting himself indulge in the territorial pleasure of their intertwined scents against the sheets.

Jaskier pushes at Geralt’s shoulder softly, urging him lie on his back against the mattress. Jaskier smirks at him and straddles his hips, sitting against his thighs and holding a hand up.

“Pass me the oil,” he asks, a sneaky glint of mirth in his eyes. Geralt flails a hand out, fumbling fingers shifting through the beside table drawer. He nearly flings the oil at the bard, hands dropping to Jaskier’s thighs to restrain himself.

Jaskier uncorks the bottle, coating his fingers in shiny oil, then braces a hand against Geralt’s scarred belly and reaching back with the other. Geralt is immediately resentful that he can’t see what Jaskier is doing, but he watches Jaskier’s face, heart rate picking up with arousal as Jaskier stretches himself. He runs his hands along Jaskier’s spread thighs, feeling himself harden quickly in anticipation—

Jaskier’s hand slips on Geralt’s belly, wrist brushing against Geralt’s erection, and Geralt can’t stop the growl that tears out of him.

“Jaskier.”

“Patience,” Jaskier teases, though judging by how how hands are starting to shake and his breathing is picking up, he’s just as impatient as Geralt is.

Jaskier scoots himself up a bit, then looks down at Geralt, pretty blue eyes suddenly hesitant.

“Okay?”

Geralt cannot possibly express how okay this is, so he tightens his grip on Jaskier’s thighs and nods quickly, voice gone.

Jaskier’s oil slick fingers reach back and coat Geralt’s erection and Geralt jerks in his grip, too hot and eager—

He feels Jaskier shift again and position Geralt’s erection against him, making eye contact for last second permission. The bard takes a slow, deep breath, then sinks down. Geralt closes his eyes, trying to find a measure of control to distract him from the tight, hot clench of Jaskier’s body around him.

Jaskier’s movements are achingly slow, but when Geralt feels the back of Jaskier’s thighs touch his hips, he risks a glance down.

Immediately his hips jolt up without his consent and Jaskier yelps.

“Sorry,” Geralt bites out, trying to breath slowly and keep his hips pinned to the bed. Seeing Jaskier sitting in his lap, trembling, thighs spread wide for Geralt’s hips, his mouth open and lips bitten red—

“’S okay, just— don’t move for a second,” Jaskier says, shifting slightly to try and adjust to the feeling of Geralt within him. Geralt bites his cheek, hard. Jaskier is so perfectly warm and tight—

The bard takes several slow, shuddering breaths, then slowly starts moving— bracing both hands on Geralt’s chest and rolling his hips.

Geralt clenches his stomach hard to keep still. This is agony, but if it’s what Jaskier needs—

“Okay,” Jaskier whispers after several slow rolls of his hips, “okay, move. Please.”

Breathe punching out of him, Geralt slides his hands up to Jaskier’s hips, shifting his feet to brace on the bed and jacking his hips up into the bard.

Jaskier yelps, chest heaving, shocked eyes looking down at him.

“Again,” he demands, and Geralt happily obeys, pushing and pulling Jaskier in counterpoint to his thrusts, slow at first but building momentum. Jaskier can do nothing but brace himself as Geralt rolls his hips up.

Geralt knows he’s probably bruising Jaskier’s hips (something he’ll berate himself harshly for later) but Jaskier looks so overwhelmed and the _sounds_ he’s making—

Geralt’s hips stutter and he pulls Jaskier down hard, pressing his hips as deeply as he can and throwing his head back, spilling in Jaskier. His vision whites out, but he twists them to pin the bard down, reaching for Jaskier’s neglected erection.

Jaskier whines at Geralt’s touch, squirming, pre-cum sliding out of him to land on his belly. Geralt stays buried in the bard, jacking him quickly and leaning down to kiss him, biting at his swollen lips.

Jaskier goes stiff beneath him, coming in Geralt’s grip. The squeeze of him around Geralt tips into oversensitivity and his hips jolt in response, pulling a startled yelp out of the bard.

Jaskier lets out a soft “oof” as Geralt collapses on top of him and he quickly tangles his arms around Geralt’s broad shoulders to stop him from moving away.

Geralt carefully pulls out of Jaskier, pressing their lips together to distract Jaskier from the unpleasant feeling. He presses kisses along Jaskier’s jaw and down his neck to bury his face in the bard’s hair and take in his smell.

“So,” Jaskier mumbles, breathing hard, “Gots Velen.”

Geralt nods, humming.

“We can lay here for a little while longer, though, right?”

Geralt nods, shifting to lie more heavily on Jaskier.

“Yeah, just a couple hours,” he agrees.

_Maybe this town isn't so terrible,_ Geralt thinks as he drifts into sleep— sun warming his skin through the window and Jaskier's hands running along his back.

Jaskier starts to hum a tune, and Geralt smiles against his neck.


End file.
